


Lupara bianca

by InksandPens



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Crowley, I couldn't think of a good title so you get barely relevant mafia terms, I mean physically he's already been hurt before the fic starts, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), ambiguous situation, no beta we saunter vaguely downwards, only tagging the book because this is strictly a book AU, vague depictions of stab wounds, yay an AU for a book I haven't read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21662344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InksandPens/pseuds/InksandPens
Summary: Crowley tries not to get whacked. Shouldn't be too hard, right? His whole job revolves around talking people into or out of things, and he's pretty sure this guy already kinda likes him. At least, he thinks so. Hopes?
Comments: 30
Kudos: 156





	Lupara bianca

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on/inspired by the bookverse mob!au by 10yrsyart on tumblr.

“Don’tkillmeI’lldoanythingbutpleasedon’tmakemekidnapanyonethat’swhyIleft!”

The bookseller halted in his footsteps, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “What was that?”

“Look, I… I don’t wanna die, and… I don’t know what family you’re with, but I’m assuming you’re pretty far up, right? I’m, I wanna cut ties with mine, and, uh, I’m pretty sure they want me gone too. I mean.” He gestured to the bandages. “So, like, I’m not a threat to you or anything, I’m not trying to be!”

The amusement was sloughing off the bookseller’s face like water from a greased-up pan, and Crowley panicked. “I-I’m not even asking for an important job, I can, like, deliver messages or, or organize your files or something low-stakes like that.”

Yeah, he could do that. Low-stakes stuff. Steeling himself, Crowley tried to even his voice out. Just think of it as another persuasion job.

(Never mind that no persuasions had worked on this guy so far. At least, none of the ones that he told himself mattered.)

“All those necessary but boring parts of the biz? I could do those for you, you won’t even have to look at me again.” Okay, that idea hurt a bit, but he was aiming for survival, here, and the guy was looking less amiable and more cross by the second. “Or, or you could keep an eye on me, that’s cool, former rival, I get it. Maybe you don’t want me involved in the actual biz, okay. D’you-“ His breath hitched. “D’you think I’m a plant? I’m not, I swear. I mean, a stab for believability does sound like something they’d do, but they would’ve gone for the look, not actual deadliness, and you spent all night making sure I didn’t die, so. Don’t want that effort to go to waste, right?”

This wasn’t working. He gulped. “I don’t even have to work with your crew. You, I dunno, you want a butler? I’ll be the best damn butler. An errand boy? Ah, no, I’d have to leave the house for that, ummm, uh, private entertainment? I can.” He tried to rearrange himself at an enticing angle without aggravating his wound too much. “I can be that for you. Take your mind off rough days.” Damn it, his voice wasn’t soft enough, he had to try harder, his life was on the line and he’d never seen the bookseller look less convinced of anything in the time he’d known the man. “I’ve had a few jobs take a turn that direction. I’m not inexperienced. I’d make you feel goo- _ow_! Ssh!” Crowley pitched forward abruptly, wincing out a pained hiss, hand scrabbling at his stomach. He wasn’t sure what, but he’d done something that made the bandages tug.

Wincing in pain had been a mistake. In the half-second Crowley had taken his eyes off him, the bookseller had gotten closer. And it didn’t look like it was because he’d found any of the offers appealing. “WAIT!”

He stopped.

“I, I don’t wanna do what I did for them. I don’t wanna force people out of their homes, make them close their little shops. I don’t wanna kidnap anybody. I don’t wanna hold hostages. So, so if that’s what you want from me, well.” His voice broke, and he had to take a breath. It was a shaky one. “Well too bad, because I’m not doin’ it. And, and if you don’t want me for anything else, then…then…”

He suddenly found he couldn’t look his temporary savior in the eye anymore. With a jolt, he pulled his knees up to his chest. It hurt, oh it hurt like a bitch, but with the way things were going, it wasn’t like that was going to matter much longer.

“Fuck,” he hissed as he felt something leak from his eyes. “Goddam, shit, _fuck_!”

He allowed himself one sob, only one, before forcing himself to continue, voice wobbling.

“Can you at least do it outside?”

“…do what?”

It was the first thing the bookseller had said since Crowley’s pitiful attempt at bargaining for his life had begun.

“What-whatever it is you did to the other guys who tried to- to get you to leave your shop. The ones that came after I did?” All that got him was a blank look. “Oh. Guess you didn’t know, but it’s not like it matters now…ah, heh, hey Mr. Fell, is there any poetry to that? First one to try, last one to die? Gheh, and at the house I talked you into buying, too.” He sniffed. “Just, make it quick, please. Please. I, I won’t run, I…I got nowhere else to go. And let-!” His throat hurt. “Let me see the sky one last time.”

This was a beach house. He probably had a boat. Maybe he shot them out at sea. Dumped their bodies in the ocean. If his corpse was already cooling, Crowley supposed he wouldn’t mind getting eaten by a shark.

The other man was saying something, but Crowley couldn’t discern it over the sounds his shuddering lungs were pushing through his voicebox. He felt like he was going to be sick, and he wasn’t sure if it was from hopelessness or the steadily rising but _so insignificant_ pain in his abdomen.

He had _liked_ Mr. Fell, goddam it.

He must’ve lost track of things for a bit, because the next thing Crowley remembered, the man was seated next to him, instead of standing across, holding the bottom of a mug that was just emptying itself into Crowley’s mouth. Something warm, vaguely herbal.

Ah. Poison. He should’ve figured.

He sighed as the mug was taken away. It was done, then.

“Outside?” He mumbled, hunching further in on himself, but placing both feet on the floor nonetheless.

At least his throat didn’t hurt as much, anymore.

The bookseller nodded in acquiescence, helping him to stand, his arms bracing but gentle. They made their way through the door and out onto a wooden deck. Crowley sat at the edge, letting his feet dangle. The bookseller stood next to him, arms rested heavily on the railing.

Crowley breathed deeply, the third one catching a few times on the inhale. More moisture traced its way from his eyes to his chin, but he actually felt strangely calm.

By all accounts, it was a pleasant night. The sea-scented breeze blew notes of salt in their direction, the waves calmly lapping against the shore. The moon was full tonight, outshining some of the dimmer stars. There were no boats out, nothing to break the horizon line. No bonfires or young couples or abandoned umbrellas on the sand. He closed his eyes, letting himself feel the wind in his hair, letting it dry the…okay, the tears…against his cheeks.

“Okay, how slow-acting was that brew of yours, anyway? At this rate the anticipation is gonna kill me before the poison does.”

Crowley suddenly had the thought that if he lost motor functions before anything else, he could very well fall off the edge of the deck. Deciding he didn’t want that, he gracelessly reclined, back flat against the wood. Hey, his spine fit into the groove between planks, lucky. Kind of an awkward angle for his pelvis, though. He pulled one leg up, resting the sole of his foot on the edge, leaning his knee against the railing supports. His hands folded themselves over the bandages that felt like they were barely holding his guts together anymore. There, that was better. Gave him a better view of the stars. And of the bookseller.

Who was giving him an odd look. “You believe I poisoned you?”

Crowley blinked. Oh, there was still some misery clinging to his eyelashes, gross. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. He really had managed to get quite comfortable on the deck. He could already feel himself drifting off. “Yeah.”

The bookseller sighed. Bit his lip. Furrowed his brow. Sighed again. “My dear boy, I suppose it’s time I come clean. I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

It was a strange thing to confess, seeing as he’d barely said anything all night that wasn’t directly related to addressing Crowley’s acquaintance with the knife. And the entire time Crowley had known him, once he’d given up on trying to get him to pack up and sell off his store, they hadn’t talked about much besides literature and food and recent news stories that Crowley made sure his organization wasn’t involved in before bringing up.

Crowley didn’t look too closely at that observation, though. Looking at the bookseller was getting hard enough. His eyelids were growing heavy.

“I must admit, I wasn’t quite sure what you were planning to say after your little…outburst, there.” The man continued. “I was intrigued, so I let you carry on, and I’m afraid that…well, now I see that in doing so, I’ve let you draw some incorrect conclusions. Please forgive me.”

Crowley struggled to think. He didn’t think it really mattered, but it seemed to matter to Mr. Fell, so… “you’re not affiliated? Like, at all?”

“Not at all, dear boy.”

“Huh.” So he hadn’t even got bumped off by an opposing crew, just one guy going solo. A few days ago, the idea might’ve irritated him, but for some reason now it seemed funny. He smirked. “No wonder the grunts talk about you like some old Grimm-style fairy tale. You’re a modern legend. What’s that make me?” He sighed, not really needing the answer.

Movement. “Are you quite alright?”

“ ‘m dying, remember?”

“My dear, unless the nature of your wound is quite different than it appeared after thorough examination, I can assure you that you are not dying.”

Crowley felt his forehead crease in thought, though he didn’t remember telling it to do that. “Then, why…?” He tried to angle his head toward where he’d last heard the bookseller, but the effort was ruined since he really couldn’t hold his eyes open anymore.

“Why are you feeling so lethargic? Well, some of it might be the tea, but I suspect it’s mostly due to the fact that you’ve dropped your guard long enough for the days’ worth of exhaustion you’ve been fighting to catch up to you.” His voice shifted from lecture tone to something reminiscent of a promise. “Just exhaustion, not death.”

Not death? Then what was he supposed to do? He had no idea why he was being kept alive. What did he want?

“Right now, I want you to sleep. We can discuss your future better once you’re rested. And...” He felt something fuzzy drape itself over his body, tassels tickling his neck. “I do hope you realize I have no intention to harm you. Actually, I…”

Crowley barely caught what Mr. Fell (no, his name is _Aziarphale_ ) said before slumber carried him off.

“I was rather touched when you came to me for help.”

**Author's Note:**

> 10yrsy's au is pretty free range right now, so in my take I changed things up a little by having Crowley be the _first_ negotiator his organization sent to the bookshop. He's unsuccessful, so they start sending others, and _that's_ when the disappearances start. But Crowley continues to loiter around the place when no one else but Mr. Fell is there, because the intrigue is just too much. Maybe it starts to turn into something else, but before Crowley can examine that too closely, disaster strikes...
> 
> ...at least that's the backstory to this emotionally-driven word vomit I've spewed out here, I'm not sure how much of it actually comes through XD.


End file.
